Stephen
by The.Dust.Of.Jack
Summary: On a visit to a psychiatric hospital on a case, Sherlock bumps into a mystery by the name of John Watson.


Title: Stephen  
Rating: U  
Pairing: None  
Warning: Um… Slight spoilers, I guess. AU.  
Characters: Sherlock and John  
Disclaimer: Not the BBC  
Word count: 2,571

Summary: On a visit to a psychiatric hospital on a case, Sherlock bumps into a mystery by the name of John Watson.

A/N: Ahaha, jerisard dot livejournal dot com slash 282654 dot html = A brilliant story, based on a similar concept to the one below. Very different, but very good.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't completely sure if he liked it here.

On the outside it seemed pleasant enough, with sharp white stones as the make up of the building, and arched windows and seemingly large rooms, with a long tree-lined drive, and flowered gardens of hundred of different colours which were nice to look at and presumably calming for the patients.

It was a psychiatric hospital, and it was cut off and fake; a new, artificial world made in a bubble which could keep the patient's safe. And they were patients – they were not the criminally insane, or the violently crazed; no, these people were just those who had snapped and were either interesting enough to gain sponsorship or rich enough to afford a room.

Sherlock was not sure if that sat right with him. He was a frequent enough visitor of prisons and institutes for insane criminals, but never had he visited a place where people were just people with no motives for pointing out their own insanity. He was uncomfortable here. He wondered briefly if it was because, according to the normal rules of society and the names people who he was forced to work along the side of, he belonged here too. It had a kind of peaceful calmness to the place, and there was also a strange warmth which suggested care and love. It felt like coming home. It scared Sherlock, somewhat.

He was here to pay a visit to the only person connected to Sebastian Moran – Darren Moran, his son, who had regressed into childhood when he was seventeen and had the mental agility of a five-year-old despite being now twenty-one. He needed to know details of the boy's father, though he doubted how much he could gather from the boy in the first place to be brutally honest. He knew quite a lot already from the man himself and his questionable associates, and what with Darren's mental state Sherlock was unsure if he would know anything more than what Sherlock could tell from his investigations.

The reception told him Darren was in an unscheduled meeting with his psychiatrist at the moment due to a sudden rise in aggressive behaviour, and while Sherlock took this at a good sign it also meant he couldn't run by his own schedule, which was irritating. The receptionist Lynn offered him a coffee which he accepted, though he had no intentions to drink it seeing as there was no possible measure in which to tell them he doesn't want milk without it becoming rude and them kicking him out. Well, there were, but he was unable to work up the emotional capabilities required to use care and tact. With the milky coffee in hand he left the building again and went for a bracing walk in the slight chill which was present in the air to beacon the beginning of autumn.

He had decided on a walk in order to re-evaluate his theories so far, and pick them apart in the search of mistakes or things he may had missed which could be the key to leading him to Moran. The walk started as planned, and he was far into his own thoughts and ponderings when someone crashed into him in an almost stereotypical manner. Sherlock's untouched coffee spilled all over them both causing them to jump back from each other and the other man who had collided with Sherlock looked about to start apologising incessantly. Sherlock put up a hand to stop him before he even started. The man remained quiet obediently and Sherlock took in the little details.

Standing straight with cropped hair and being able to take orders so quick and so well suggested military, to the point of habitual following orders from anyone with a sharp enough look, so military for a long time. The cane clutched tight in his hand suggested a wound, perhaps a bullet, but the fact he wasn't complaining about it, or in fact even noticing it as he stood still said to Sherlock it was probably psychosomatic. He probably had a therapist then, though you didn't come to Whitehall to just visit a therapist, so he was here visiting someone else. There was a sense of comfort and familiarity which he had standing in his surroundings – he wasn't here for the first time, in fact he had become very used to this place, so he was visiting someone close to him, then, whom he saw often. A family member was likely, though it could be a girlfriend or very close friend. The lack of wedding finger on his hand told Sherlock it was definitely not a wife. His age meant it was possible that it was his parents, but judging by his clothes he was unlikely to be able to afford such a luxurious hospital for them. He seemed lower middle class also judging solely by his clothes, and on the statistics which stated that only a small fraction of people ever move either up or down the class ladder, then it was reasonable to assume his parents couldn't afford their own fees to this place, either. Could be a sponsorship, but they would be old, and 'old' is not enough to warrant such a thing in such a distinguished and private place.

It could perhaps be a sibling, with the people they married paying for it instead of the biological family, but Sherlock couldn't be sure. If it was a girlfriend or a close friend this man wouldn't be paying for it, but was reasonable to assume he was a frequent visitor. Frequent enough, perhaps, to be comfortable here. From the smell of him, he'd already been inside but was now just enjoying a breather before he either went home or went to say goodbye. The man's hand shook slightly at his side, but it wasn't bad enough to warrant too much attention Sherlock would wager. Without any other clues Sherlock couldn't get much else.

"Sorry." The man said finally, and Sherlock nodded at him.

"Accepted." He said, somewhat stiffly. Smiling slightly, the man nodded back, before walking passed slightly towards a bench. Sherlock watched him as he went, noticing the severity of the limp which he hadn't been able to see as the man stood still. Definitely psychosomatic, and the amount of trauma needed to cause such a psychological response confirmed Sherlock's idea of the man being wounded in action, though not in his leg. He followed the man and sat down next to him gently. The man let him join him, showing an expression of surprise, though Sherlock noted with some interest that it wasn't all real.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He questioned, and this caused some very real surprise which almost made Sherlock smile. Along with this shock, he expected some spluttering, or perhaps the dramatic spraying of the coffee the man held as well, but all he got was a pause and at the end of it an, "Excuse me?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He repeated.

"Afghanistan." The man said, and where he was supposed to say, 'How did you know?' he instead looked at Sherlock strangely for a second, before smiling slightly and looking to the flowers on the other side of the drive directly opposite him. Sherlock was intrigued. He needed more data. Pulling out his phone, he went to unlock it, then tutted dramatically to himself, suggested that his phone battery had died. A lie, but enough to be able to legitimately ask a person for a more personal item such as their mobile phone.

"Do you mind?" He asked, and the man gave him a look before nodding, reaching into his pockets and pulling out a mobile. Sherlock observed it covertly as he sent his text, before passing it back to this man, theories forming in his mind at this new mystery – the old one he came to Whitehall for in the first place suddenly insignificant despite all evidence suggesting this man was actually very normal.

"Your name?" He asked, and the man held out a hand which Sherlock took.

"John Watson." He said. Sherlock returned the favour, happy that the phone was deeper than it seemed.

"Is Harry's condition improving?" He was pleased to see that startled John more than his other comment did. The engraving on John's phone, the expense of it, the whole 'Clara xxx' business and of course the scratch marks at the charger plug-in suggested a brother, a fairly well-off one as well, and a drunk one. Obviously, Harry was the one in Whitehall. John didn't seem to follow how Sherlock had managed to make such a deduction about his life so quickly, but he was amazingly swift in accepting that it had been done at all. Sherlock found himself further interested the more he learned about the seemingly usual man before him.

"Yes." John said. "Yes, Harry is doing quite well, actually. It's good to see." He was still smiling, though it seemed distant now, as if Harry was further away than he was. Sherlock supposed that in such an artificial place like this it could almost seem as if to not be here was to be transported to a different and horrible planet.

"A drunk." It was a statement, but until Sherlock said it out loud and John nodded solemnly he didn't realise where the flaws where in his theory. "Drunks do not come here." And Harry was just a large, annoying coincidence.

John looked back at Sherlock, honestly curious where the man's thought pattern was taking him, but that was to be expected. "Pardon?"

"Who are you here to visit?" Sherlock demanded to know, and John's expression was one he could only identify because Mycroft used to wear them all the time when they were children, and now Sally Donovan had taken up his brother's mantel and used this particular face when he was being unusually socially inept. It was a look which told Sherlock he was an idiot. He didn't understand why John was giving him that particular look, and John wasn't offering any answers.

"A friend?" He said, and John seemed to ponder this before nodding finally, accepting this as close enough.

"Yes." He smiled, and this expression was fond, fonder than that for his brother, because he was remembering the better times no doubt, but there was also the possibility that this friend was getting better.

"From Afghanistan?" Sherlock wondered aloud, but found it much easier to think when John was offering answers.

"No, I met him quite recently. About six months ago, I'd say."

"That isn't a long time to form such a close bond." Sherlock stated. "How long have you been home? Eight, nine months?"

"Yes, eight. Closing in on nine."

"I see." Sherlock nodded. "I'd say a female, but that wouldn't be a friend, so it is it almost definitely a male. To make such a close friend in such a short time period would have to mean a close proximity to them during many hours. Possibly a work friend, but also likely to be a flatmate." Sherlock noticed John nodding, and repeated the flatmate proposal. Once again, John nodded.

"His name is Stephen." John said. "Younger than me, worked as a consultant for Scotland Yard. He occasionally needed me for a medical diagnosis, though he was good himself. Brilliant even, if a little bit specialised in his knowledge."

"You're a doctor?" Sherlock's mind jumped to, ignoring the rest of his mental process which was marvelling on how John Watson seemed to be giving him the main details Sherlock would require to make a fairly decent mental evaluation of an individual. It had almost seemed like instinct for John to say what was only relevant to Sherlock, and similarly it was instinctual for Sherlock to ignore it because that was just who John was, and wasn't really relevant, even though, upon hindsight, it really was.

John ignored his comment, and in that he confirmed it, and Sherlock looked over the man again, trying to see 'army doctor'. He could see it well enough, true, but was amazed by the lack of clues which would have led Sherlock to this deduction on their own. Allowing John to see a rarity when it came to Sherlock, Sherlock tried to show some tact as he deducted that John's flatmate was possibly close to anti-social despite his job due to his specialised knowledge, and that he had probably taken mentally ill due to not being able to fit well into society. Sherlock was shocked when John gave him a sharp, angry look. Sherlock gave one of confusion back.

"He's not 'mentally ill'." John snapped in defence of his friend. "There is nothing wrong with him. He's different, yes, but that doesn't make him _ill_."

Sherlock was on the verge of sneering now, tact be damned, and about to say that he obviously was given that he was in what was more or less an asylum. It was at that moment, though, luckily enough, when a nurse called out to him, saying Darren was able to receive company now. Calmed right down, she said. He didn't even need sedatives.

Sherlock swooped up, a flair of dramatics to him with his coat, and looked down at John once more, noting that John seemed a little embarrassed by his outburst, but wouldn't take back what he had said. Sherlock bid him a good afternoon, and John said goodbye. That was the end of that. He passed the nurse who had approached them, and heard her said softly to John that they'd be out to get him later. Sherlock could have easily construed that as the nurse reassuring John they hadn't forgotten that John was still waiting for his friend, but 'later' was too broad a term to use with guests, because guests wouldn't accept it as an answer. Guests would have a life to live, like Sherlock did, and guests wouldn't be able to waste a day on a nurse's word of merely 'later'. Sherlock looked back and saw her hand on John's shoulder, and John was looking steadfastly across the way, almost looking through her, still as a statue.

Looking at him again with more insight than ever, Sherlock saw that the limp was more than psychosomatic, and the shaking hand was more serious than it had first seemed. In John's patience there was a worrying underlying cause, and his symptoms were the understanding and quick readiness to accept all that Sherlock said so easily without a single bad word. The flatmate he defended so readily probably wasn't real (Sherlock would check, but he was sure he was right), and it was all in his imagination. John knew it was he who was crazy, seeing as he had defended Stephen's insanity so readily; he knew it was all just him really.

He didn't meet Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock doubted he even knew Sherlock was watching him with such rapt attention. In that pale gaze Sherlock had before shown off in there was suddenly a vacuum of empty space which was not there before. Either that or it had been hidden with Sherlock's own perceptions of sanity which he had portrayed onto John whom had looked so normal at first; so boring.

Six months ago John had met Stephen, and that possibly correlated with his being moved here. Afghanistan had left the man broken, but there was no doubt that he had created Stephen to cope with the being taken from London which he had considered boring into a new, cut-of-from-reality world which was even more than frightfully dull. It seemed to Sherlock like almost a sane thing to do. Sherlock knew he'd never survive it here, so didn't find it surprising that usual people couldn't. Unfortunately, John Watson wasn't even 'usual'. He had no idea how the doctors expected the man to last in these dreary surroundings, no matter how pretty they were.

When the nurse came back to Sherlock, he asked her a question. She had obviously seen him and John talking and thus felt guiltless in answering, assuming John and him were now friends.

"He was living in a different world when he came in." She said, a sad look across her face. "He still was until quite recently. He believed in madmen keeping heads in the fridge who ran around London saving the day. People who picked and chose their own cases; who were so detached from reality that they didn't know the simple things in life. John said Stephen didn't know how the DVD player hooked up to the TV, but could tell you how fast the inorganic – or maybe it was the organic, I never remember – matter of bone would dissolve in _Coca Cola_." She looked up to Sherlock and sighed. "John was tortured by the war, but more so by coming back, and he needed something extraordinary in his life to make those despicable things he'd grown accustomed to in the war seem usual. That was important to him – so important that he had to fabricate it."

Sherlock looked back again, to the figure of Dr. John Watson, who looked rather wretched in his sad position, almost curled up in himself as he sat still, and Sherlock felt curious – because what she'd just described as John's imaginary world sounded an awful lot like Sherlock's personal reality.

"He said Stephen was wonderful." She continued, referring of course to John's imaginary room-mate designed by his own subconscious to stop him adjusting properly to civilian life or even ever recovering. "To me, he just sounds like a psychopath."

"High-functioning sociopath." Sherlock bit back automatically, before realising she wasn't talking to, or even about him. He felt a bit sick in realising he almost thought she was.

The sickness grew with the confusion and pure frustration when he realised that John's roommate sounded just like him, too.

* * *

End.

* * *

A/N: Probably to not be continued X)

Btw, haven't checked over twice for errors, because it's half two in the morning and I'm expecting company tomorrow early afternoon so there is no time. Good morning.

Jack


End file.
